Black Rock Shooter: Starry Skies Tainted By Flood
by Tusjecht
Summary: While Master Chief was fighting for his life in the depths of Halo, another was fighting hordes of Infection Forms and the dead to reach BRS. Can BRS' life and his be saved before Halo is destroyed? AU with one OC. PoV ranges from character to character. I do not own Black Rock Shooter nor Halo. William C. Dietz is the author of Halo: The Flood. See Profile for details, review pls!
1. One Last Message Amid Power Failure

**One Last Message Amid Power Failure: Black Rock Shooter**

* * *

/BEGIN TEXTUAL LOG

/DATE: #$ %$&%$

/ERROR 000417A : DATE AND TIME LOG IS CORRUPT.

/REFERENCE DATE: {September 19, 2552} [EXTRACTED CALENDAR FROM HUMAN SYSTEMS]

(Geez, everything is failing, is it? Well, I will have to preserve this log anyway...she entrusted it to me, isn't it? Oh well, I have to make do.)

/DATE: SEPTEMBER 19, 2548 [HUMAN CALENDAR REFERENCE]

/ENTREE ID: BLACK ✭ ROCK SHOOTER

/BEGIN LOG:

I hope you're reading this somewhere.

There must be countless terminals scattered throughout this place...a few should at least be near your Stasis Confinement Room. Wherever you are.

Gosh, the lights are driving me cra-

/ERROR

/reset

/ERROR: SERVER FAILED TO COMMUNICATE. CACHING LOG FOR FUTURE UPDATING.

Geez. Power is intermittent...maybe, just maybe, it hasn't affected your Confinement Chamber yet.

The map showed you should be on the far side, right? Near the teleporter..

Gah. Forget it. Get out of here first.

I've locked myself inside this...this lounge, I think. There's a Confinement Chamber, of all things...

Food and water are running short. I had to clean my sword and cannon using a cleaning rag I found in a cupboard.

Where are you? Find me, find me again, you idiot...

I'll give you a sla-

/ERROR

/ERROR: SERVER RESPONSE NOT EQUAL OR LESS THAN 100MS.

/rerouting server connection

/ERROR: ORIGINAL CACHE COPY LOST. SAVE CHANGES? Y

Stupid terminal.

Alright, I won't write anymore...I've already written so much since I remembered everything.

Just...just find me, okay?

The terminal listed your ID as this...this ACS.

Anomalous..Cyan Shields.

Hehe. Did you write that yourself? You always said cyan was your favorite colour.

I hope you remember my name. I forgot mine ever since I woke up.

/ERROR

/ERROR: LOCAL POWER CAPACITY NOT EQUAL OR MORE THAN 100 M AH. SERVER EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN IN {5 minutes}.

Blasted thing.

Well then, see you soon...I'll be waiting. Just like a princess in an icy cage.

/TEXTUAL LOG END.

* * *

**Awakening As Dark Clouds Converge: Anomalous Cyan Shield**

* * *

It's this dream again.

Mato is laughing at something, and I'm sitting next to her. The sounds, sights, and smells are all muted and have an unreal quality to it, like viewing a projected film. This scene is all too familiar for me in this dream state, because I just instinctively know that I've seen this scene countless times. I've dreamt this dream many times, only to have it cruelly cut off at the ending. Like a well-written poem that is written on a spark of inspiration, but when that spark vanishes, so does the flow of the poem.

Mato's head leans softly on my shoulder. Two feelings compete for my attention: the amazing warmth of her head is spreading throughout my shoulder and firing my nerves. At the same time, an icy feeling tingles throughout my body, running down from my spine to every extremity, heightening my senses and awareness. The dream becomes sharper, more clearly defined, and time seems to slow, prolonging this moment. A flurry of thoughts cross my mind: confusion, nervousness, and excitement appear to me as coloured lightning that flashes around me.

"Hey, Kyousuke..." Mato murmurs in my ear.

"Hmm?" I reply in the dream. I drape my hand around Mato's shoulder and pull her closer. It feels warmer. My hand is shaking and I know I'm visibly tense. But I , I am stuck in this endlessly repeating dream, unable to change the flow of events, not in this world. Yet, my emotions in the dream tangle and overlap with my emotions in the memory; a complicated swirl of despair, hope, depression, excitement, sadness and happiness is surrounding me. My emotions in this memory are interfering with mine as an observer of this dream.

"I...I..." Mato turns to look at me, locking gazes. At this close distance, I am visibly and clearly flushing, I can feel it. Colour rises to my face and dyes it a faint shade of red. My heart is pounding; Mato's scent is overflowing and overloads my senses. Her warm breath is cooling and condensing in micro-droplets on my skin, transmitting that she is feeling just as confused and excited as I am. I am dreaming this memory so clearly I can see my eyes reflected in the dilated blue pupils of Mato's. I feel one of her hands, moving from where it was intertwined with my arm, rising up to cup my cheek. _Her palm is so soft..._

And the dream disappears; it fades to black with naught a trace of an afterimage.

_What happens next? _I yell in frustration. This dream is frustrating for me; I know innately that there is an ending to this memory, and yet the dream just ends here. There was more to it, I know there was! Something else happens after this! But I can't control a dream; the hard reality is that I will be limited to whatever fragment of dream my unconscious mind recalls.

I scream to myself in frustration. The next moments are so tantalising in their proximity and agonising in their separation. _Just a few more moments, _I begged to an imaginary deity of this world. _Just a few moments, let me see what did I and Mato do after that!_

Of course nothing happens. I am after all, alone in this world. The blackness has rushed in to fill the absence of the dream, though it will be soon enough that that scene will return. I will be forced to relieve a truncated summary of a day deeply buried within my memories for as long as I am asleep.

How long have I dreamt like this? For how long, have I been confined to this world in my mind, and tortured with something beyond my reach? The answer is unknown; time is stretching to intolerable lengths here, and of course, I have no way of keeping log of events here. And at any rate, I reasoned to myself, this is just a dream that will be over soon.

But when?

* * *

/BEGIN SYSTEM LOG

/DATE: !^ %*& $

/ERROR

/ERROR 000417A: DATE AND TIME LOG IS CORRUPT

/REFERENCE DATE: {September 19, 2552} [EXTRACTED CALENDAR FROM HUMAN SYSTEMS]

/DATE: 0117 HRS, SEPTEMBER 15, 2552 [HUMAN CALENDAR REFERENCE]

/ENTREE ID: 342 GALANTHIAS QUATTUOR

/BEGIN LOG:

PRIMARY OBSERVATION: {13} unknown vessels detected in-system.

Vessels empirically observed to possess Slipstream Space Travel ability.

Vessels maintaining defensive formation around Installation.

Evidence of increased radio wave activity that background radiation cannot account for.

(DETAILED REPORT BY ENTREE ID 343 GUILTY SPARK REFERENCED IN ATTACHED CACHE)

ASSESSMENT: Moderate to High risk. Formation and communication suggests preparation for landing on Halo. Alternatively to defend against aggressor.

ACTION: Prepare {FAILSAFE PACKAGE II} for pre-emptive action.

COMMENTS:

/343 GS should be fired and reformatted.

Resources for Service Levels are critically low and he has been negligent of five (5) duties for nearly {fifty} years. Package II will be severely under-equipped.

/Package II will only have short-range weapons. The remaining long-range equipment have mostly been expended on supporting Package I.

I wish I could do more for them.

But I am just Her servant, after all.

/SYSTEM LOG END

* * *

I'm dreaming again.

« That memory » has appeared unfailingly in my dream again, restarting the process of reeling in my attention. Hook, line, and sinker, I have no choice but to take this bait and be lead by the dream.

_Why do I keep having this dream? _I wonder to myself. If dreams are a projection of the subconscious mind, then this eternal repetition of this memory must be nothing more than my deepest hope and fear, one that words I remember in my conscious mind cannot describe.

In other words, I « dream » to express what I cannot express. That would be why the noun « dream » is synonymous with the adjective « dream ». In that case, do I dream of Mato and I, not simply because that was the last memory I focused on before entering sleep, but because deep inside me, I fear something would separate us? Thus, my subconscious would truncate the dream at the end, knowing « something » happened that separated Mato and I?

This theory is familiar to me; having had nearly infinite time to think in this « dream sleep », I had sought to synthesise something else to occupy my mind. But it fails in one crucial aspect; why « that memory » has been repeating, looping, rewinding _incessantly; _to the point of driving me mad.

While I contemplated this, the current playback of « that memory » ended as abruptly as ever, and left me in the darkness again.

How do I know that in the absence of a dream, only « darkness » exists? If « darkness » is the absence of « light », then what is this light?

In the middle of my thoughts, something suddenly interrupts my train of thought.

*pulse*

_What is that? _I have never felt anything like that before. In an earthquake, when tectonic movements shake the ground one stands on, there is a strange feeling of the entire world « shifting under one's feet ». This..._this_, had just similarly occurred so.

*pulse...pulse...pulse*

Pinpoints of light began to appear in the darkness, twinkling like distant stars. They grow in luminosity and number with each pulse, giving off a similar feeling of hot metal being struck with a hammer.

_Oh god, I_ realised. _The dream is ending._

* * *

Installation 04, or Halo as its discoverers had christened it, measures ten thousand kilometres in diametre and 22.3 kilometres thick. In comparison, the approaching vessels clustering around a section appeared like stray ants having just found a treat.

Its making was as simplistic as it was massive. Recognising the need for Halo to serve multiple roles, it was divided into three sections. The inner surface and approximately 5 kilometres of depth was collectively known as the Surface level. Housing all Flood specimens as well as various flora and fauna in stasis, the surface level was the most essential purpose of Halo. Even if all containment measures failed catastrophically and the Flood acquired biomass from the stored specimens, they would still be trapped on Halo, parked between Threshold and its moons.

The outside of Halo was termed the Sanctuary level. Merely two kilometres thick, it housed most of the propulsion systems of Halo, keeping the ring spinning and stable, as well as artificial gravity generators to ensure the landscape on the surface level flourished under planetary conditions.

The remaining 15 kilometres was dedicated to the Service level. This level housed all the raw materials and parts needed for day-to-day maintenance of Halo, including Sentinel manufacture, barrier replacement, spare components for the pulse phase generators, and Slipspace capacitors to allow Halo to fire into Slipspace as well.

The makers of Halo had always intended Halo to be completely automated; Halo should be able to run itself, and if necessary, instruct an intelligent species of offspring to execute its firing sequence if the Flood ever escaped their jail.

However, even these were not expected to last forever. Monitors too, could succumb to time and become rampant; an initial failure to contain an outbreak could result in a Gravemind, whom were known to be able to control even ancillaries.

Hence, the Didact, in absolute secrecy, tugged some strings to ensure a backup system was installed in all the installations the Master Builder had constructed.

One of these took the form of a large, obsidian black cylinder that stretched from the floor to the ceiling of a darkened room. A single symbol on its smooth surface pulsed periodically, its blue light reflecting off the hardened alloy of the Monitor hovering in front of it. Its purple "eye" observed the surface silently.

This additional Monitor, separate from the assigned one presently on the Surface Level above it, was named 342 Galanthias Quattuor, using an ancient language of the Didact's old enemy to mean « Fourth Servant ».

Still shiny in appearance, this Monitor had spent the last hundred thousand cycles in a low-power state, preserving its core from the sands of time. Unlike its far more important counterpart a few levels above it, Quattuor's duty was not the monitoring of the Installation, but rather the overseeing and management of the Service Level. By extension, Quattuor had a duty to determine when it was appropriate to deploy the {Packages} his master had entrusted him with. Quattuor rechecked and entered the decrypted passcode required to unseal {Package II} from storage:

/[UNSEAL THE HUSHED CASKET]/

The symbol on the Cylinder flashed purple in acceptance. Fading out, the surface of the Cylinder suddenly blazed with a torrent of purple text, displaying various parameters of Package II. More importantly, they indicated that the ancient Forerunner inside was still alive and in a revivable state.

Slowly, the old, but well-maintained machinery whirred to life. Quattuor drifted back half a metre as clamps on the bottom and top of the Cylinder unfastened. The Didact's second backup was activated.

**to be continued.**

Author's notes:

Finally, I got around to writing this...

This was literally something I came up with in the bath. I was thinking, "What if I combined my other two favourite things: Halo and BRS? Maybe I'd put in an OC, BRS, but not Chief, since obviously he never saw anything..."

I'm borrowing the books to ensure I keep as close as possible to the timestamp format as well as see the mannerisms of 343GS.


	2. Hushed Caskets And Uncertain Future

**Hushed Caskets And Uncertain Future: 342 Galanthias Quattuor**

* * *

_"Halo is old, extremely old, as are its secrets. Blessings, really, which the Forerunners left for us to find, knowing that we would put them to good use."_

_-Minor Prophet, «Truth And Reconciliation »_

* * *

Unlike the races that flourished after their time, the Forerunners viewed sleep quite differently from their galatical descendants. Sleep, for the Forerunners, was an irritant that consumed a third of their average lifespan. Hence, only newborns were allowed to sleep naturally, and once they had reached a suitable age to wear armour, sleep was generally understood to be relegated to second-priority for the rest of their waking lives. With the extension of lives as their technology developed, Forerunners could live even longer and hardly need to sleep.

On the rare occasion a Forerunner did indeed sleep, most often it was grievous injuries beyond the capabilities of their armour to heal. Healers would induce a coma and encase the patient in a simple cryostasis capsule, shutting down all bodily functions to enhance the recovery process. The more religious might enter a Cryptum, undisturbable in their spherical sanctuaries for thousands of years to meditate on the teachings of the Mantle. Prisoners, aliens, or scientific specimens, however could expect to be encased in a Slipspace Stasis Station, beyond retrieval by anyone other than their captors indefinitely.

None of these, however, would serve the Didact's needs completely. Cryo systems were at best, a short-term measure that required constant monitoring; not an option if the monitor was to remain on standby for most of its life. Crypts required an assisting Forerunner, owing to the delicacy of the operation. Yet, the Package had to be extracted at speed, and should Halo be fired, it was unlikely any offspring species could be fully trusted to take on a task of such fragility and underlying religious significance. Worse still, should a Slipspace Stasis system fail of old age, the Package would be rendered irretrievable, lost in Slipspace. The Didact needed to prepare for a theoretically indefinite period of confinement for his chosen backup.

Hence, the Stasis Chamber containing Package II was a composite system. Borrowing a lesson from the workings of the Shield World system, the outermost system was a Slipspace Field container, holding a compressed sphere of similar dimensions to the original room within a volume half a unit across. Inside, _another_ Slipspace bubble was encased, again holding a compressed volume of the original chamber in much-reduced volume. Finally, a cryostasis tube held Package II within, with power and support equipment for the cryo system.

This system-within-a-system-within-a-system had a few advantages. First and most importantly was that even if Halo should fire, the Packages were isolated from the firing sequence within a Slipspace bubble already inside Slipspace, thereby preserving their lives. Second, time-dilation effects meant that for the cryostasis system, time inside its dimension ran twenty times slower than the dimension immediately outside it. In other words, time ran approximately four hundred times slower in the cryostasis tube's dimension, prolonging its operational lifespan.

Hence, extraction entailed bringing the cryostasis system back out of both compressed Slipspace bubbles, and then releasing the Package. Even so, such an extreme extent to preserve a living specimen had naturally never been attempted before, and side effects were all but certain. The only question was how much. Quattuor had been programmed to respond to a variety of situations, including catastrophic failure, but there were always contingencies beyond preparation by even his makers.

As the clamps separated from the protective shell containing the first Slipspace bubble released, Quattuor was presently in a state of indecisiveness, analogous to the human emotion of anxiety. Each Halo was only equipped with two Packages, and with Package I unreachable at the moment, it was critical that Package II be extracted _both_ speedily and carefully. Quattuor ran a quick check that the Installation was _not_ ready to fire - just to make sure.

The clamps fully retracted and an orange indicator lit on the surface of the cylinder. This was the only indicator that the cryostasis station had been brought out of the first Slipspace bubble. The transition otherwise was noiseless save for the quiet hum of the Slipspace machinery. Another minute passed before the indicator lit green this time, and the room gradually fell silent as their task was completed. The cryostasis tube that had held Package II was finally in real space, after more than a hundred thousand years of waiting.

Even though a little over 250 years had actually passed for the cryostasis tube and its occupant, Quattuor absentmindedly wondered what had Package II been dreaming. Having reviewed the workings of the tube, its occupant was technically in a coma, not quite on the line between life and death, but very near it. Prolonged coma patients were known to have bouts of amnesia, which could possibly compromise Package II's combat ability.

There was a gentle flutter in the Installation's walls and floor; for a twenty-two unit thick ring-shaped masterpiece of Forerunner engineering, a flutter could well have been a titanic collision with a moon of Threshold. Quattuor halted all his background processes and checked sensor packages on the Surface level, and confirmed the integrity of the Confinement Chamber.

Nearly seven kilometres above on the surface, the _Pillar Of Autumn _crash-landed on Halo.

* * *

**Blessed Are The Paths We Walk: Y'tsu Kiramee**

* * *

Today_ is my son's birthday,_ Y'tsu Kiramee absentmindedly thought to himself. In the confines of the dropship's troop slot, he found that it gave him privacy to think.

Flying over one of the many rocky formations on this ringworld, Halo, Kiramee was part of a seven-member Special Ops squad sent to the lower levels of Halo. Sensors aboard the Truth and Reconciliation and revealed a veritable maze of tunnels, passageways, and rooms below the natural surface, their entrances adorned by the deceptively simple building complexes constructed by the gods themselves.

_Or_, he thought,_ nodding his head to one side, so we've been told. Had the gods really intended Halo to be a prize for the Prophets to find? If so...I find a lack of guards disturbing._

Indeed, except for the human warship, presently lying in tatters on the surface a few hundred units behind them, Kiramee had seen little else to suggest that a reception was in order, automated or otherwise. Still, it was not his place to question such things, especially when the Minor Prophet himself had instructed Kiramee to secure the lower level. He and his team were to prepare for a search-and-extract team to recover "the holy gifts left behind by the gods themselves," as the Prophet had said.

Kiramee may have been doing as he ordered, but to him it was no different from the gross land grabs of warring keeps when all the adults were gone, leaving behind defenseless younglings. Kiramee himself recalled repelling such raids in his younger years, learning how to wield swords in a battlefield. Some small part of him was not at ease with the apparent conflict with his orders and his morals.

Peering through the slit between the doors of the troop compartment, Kiramee spotted a huge pair of spires in the distance, the destination the dropship was heading to. Turning to his left, he uttered a single word to the other black-clad Sangheili.

"Prepare."

[...]

The dropship's underbelly turret turned, and fired upon a clump of towering trees in the middle of a clearing. The bolts of plasma burned through the thick trunks and set nearby vegetation on fire. Unable to support their weight any longer, the trees collapsed - away from the clearing.

Dropship pilot Cidas Duram, not senior enough to earn the 'ee suffix, swept the area in front of the structure for any more signs of opposition or hindrances. Satisfied, he pushed down on the controls and brought the U-shaped dropship downwards with three-quarters of a unit to spare, and disengaged the troop doors.

As the Special Ops squad dismounted, the weight of the dropship decreased, and its altitude rose accordingly. By the time Kiramee had grabbed his personal Carbine, checked for any forgotten equipment, and made to leave the dropship, he had a full unit and a half to fall. His massive knees absorbed the resulting impact as a hundred and fifty kilos of muscle, armour, and weapon were reintroduced to terra firma.

Touching the radio control on the side of his neck, Kiramee turned and faced the cockpit of the dropship as if he could actually see through the metal and energy shielding. "Wait here until the other team arrives." To his credit, the younger pilot was already clearing a space for a second, larger dropship to arrive when he received the order. Good initiative, Kiramee thought.

"Yes, sir."

He turned back to glance at his squad. Six lightly armed Sangheili, each carrying two plasma grenades, a Carbine, three spare cartridges, and a personal sidearm of his choice. Kiramee eyed his sub-commander, for his choice of a plasma pistol, usually only seen in the hands of the Unggoy.

"Alright," he addressed them in his low, grating voice. "We go as deep as we can, and ensure none of the humans are there first. If there are, flush them out and make sure none come back. Any questions?"

One Sangheili grumbled. "This is a job for the Kig-yar, why send an entire Special Ops team? It is an unnecessary waste of manpower for a simple task."

Kiramee clenched and unclenched his jaws, stretching the joints and making a cracking sound that carried clearly in the quiet clearing, save for the whine of the parked dropship's engines. The errant officer instantly snapped to attention, beads of sweat gathering beneath his helmet, but he stared straight ahead as Kiramee, a full head taller, walked by with the grace of a ghost.

"_Careless _remarks aside," he snarled. "We have been blessed by a_ Prophet_ with a mission. It is our_ reward_ for placing nothing less than our utmost_ faith_ in their words and teachings."

Coming to a stop halfway down the line, Kiramee eyed the loosed-jawed officer. Lowering his voice by the smallest discernable fraction, he intoned, "and we, hardened combat veterans,_ should_ know better than to let such words slip your tongue."

"Yes, Officer." The reply came gratifyingly quick.

"If there are no further matters to discuss," he resumed his slow walk. "We shall proceed as ordered."

"Yes, Commander!" six Sangheili throats rumbled.

[...]

Entering the cavernous structure, Kiramee's watchful eye peered through a set of night-vision optics. Though sunlight illuminated the first few metres inside the opening, the structure itself appeared to absorb light, leaving the rest of the area pitch-black. And that was were they had to go. Kiramee's slow, steady footsteps, much as he tried, echoed oddly off the walls.

About 10 metres in, the room finally seemed to react to their presence. White lights sprang to life all around the team, momentarily blinding the Sangheili and overloading their optics for a moment. The beams of light crisscrossed, illuminating pillars, beams, the high ceiling..and the lift shaft mere centimetres from Kiramee's foot. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, Kiramee tore off the now-unnecessary optics and scanned for threats.

Nothing. The cavernous room was empty save for Kiramee and his team. Removing his hand from the carbine grip, he made a closed fist, the back of his palm facing up. He opened it slowly: the signal for "at ease, on guard."

The team slowly lowered their weapons. Sub-Commander Seru Waraai, his second in command and master swordsman, moved towards a holographic panel and studies it, while the rest of the team fanned out into a rough semicircular shape, their weapons now pointing at the ground rather than straight ahead.

Behind Kiramee, he heard the distinctive drone of a Phantom dropship approach, echoing throughout the space. Taking a last uneasy glance at the yawning shaft at his feet, he turned to meet the extraction team leader; the Zealot Shu'n Pundomee. Clad in gold armour, the Sangheili disembarked from the troop platform and strode up to Kiramee in a rather arrogant fashion.

"Situation report, Special Ops Commander." A voice growled from within the golden helmet.

"The area is secure, Zealot," Kiramee replied evenly. "My squad is continuing to scout the complex for other access points."

He paused, waiting for the Zealot to show some reaction. When he did not, Kiramee proceeded on.

"There is a lift shaft extending below the complex, possibly to the levels you desire to reach. My men are workin-"

"_We, _Special Ops Commander." Pundomee corrected with surprising coolness. "_We_ are going to access the sacred construct's levels together. Your team is assigned to our security after all."

"And what of the dropships?"

The Zealot shrugged, a surprisingly relaxed gesture. "The pilots can take care of the area from us. Unless the humans recognise the worth of the construct they're soiling with their boots, I think it is unlikely we are running into serious opposition from them."

"Very well, Zealot." Kiramee touched his neck radio again. "Squad, assemble at the lift shaft. Waraai, what's the status of the lift.?"

"Lift is operational, sir." Waraai replied calmly. "The names of some floors elude translation, but as far as I can read, we are on the topmost floor of a 'Surface' level. This lift can access all floors within this level, and the first floor of a 'Service' level."

Kiramee relayed the information to the Zealot, who simply nodded. "Other teams have also reported finding similar lifts. We shall go to the deeper 'Service' level then; other teams have already been assigned to these 'Surface' levels."

"As you command, Zealot."

Kiramee turned to observe the disembarking recovery team. Mostly Unggoy, a few Kig-Yar, and two other Minor Elites, the team was even more lightly armed than Kiramee's squad. Most of the Unggoy were busy unloading cargo containers while the Kig-Yar were unpacking a large grav cart and some lockbreakers. Only the Minor elites carried plasma rifles and a grenade each.

Pundomee and both teams assembled inside the complex. The Zealot inspected the lift controls, and seemingly satisfied, touched a glowing yellow circle. It blinked twice, and faded out, and from the depths of the shaft, a subsonic sound reverberated as the lift platform gradually ascended from the depths.

The platform was unexpectedly translucent, and one could see through it into the depths below. The teams assembled on the platform with plenty of space to spare, though Kiramee was sure he wasn't alone in feeling unsettled by the huge abyss just below his feet. He instinctively clutched his carbine a little closer to his chest.

The Zealot engaged the lift and it accelerated downwards, picking up speed until Kiramee felt his whole body feel lighter. His ears popped as they plunged deep into the construct. He glanced at his fellow squad members: on guard, but hardly at ease. Waraai's hand tapped on his thigh, just below where his sword handle was slung. An officer glanced this way and that, as though expecting the humans to emerge from the shaft's sides. Even Pundomee crossed and uncrossed his arms.

Everything should be alright, but why did it feel so wrong?

* * *

**Lingering Nameless Images In Memory: Anomalous Cyan Shield**

* * *

This light is beautiful.

Where the first few tiny motes of light had appeared, they had now multiplied and grown in brightness exponentially. In the darkness of my dream, if one can still call it a dream, they filled the space with light brighter than any star. And with it, I felt nothing but relief; relief that at last, I will be free of the prison of dream sleep.

But then, how will I know I was sleeping? Try as I might, I simply cannot recall exactly how I entered this space. All I know is that since then, I have been assaulted by an endlessly repeated memory that somehow occupies a place deep in my heart.

Just how important was that dream to me? Is it something that I should cherish after all?

The light has all but consumed my perspective now. _It's soon,_ I can feel it. Wherever my body is, soon I will be released. Freedom beyond awaits.

But then, will that mean I'm leaving behind this dream of that girl? I struggle to focus my thoughts for a little more.

_What's her name? Who is that girl? Remember again!_

The light is now taking on a new quality, a distinctive feeling not there previously. The light is beautiful...and it is _cold__. _Biting, freezing cold. My train of thought is derailed by this feeling.

On the verge of awakening, I'm suddenly filled with a deep ache, something analogous to regret - regret, that I couldn't have used the time to properly dream. To cherish and enjoy each moment of a time long ago, and accept each minute in that world as a gift.

_Let me dream again, _I plead for the last time. _Let me remember each second that passes._

_Let me dream again of a boy and a girl in love, relive their times. Her name is Mato-_

* * *

**Ninety-Three Percent Capacity: 342 Galanthias Quattuor**

* * *

Quattuor silently looked upon the large angular pod, hissing what appeared to be steam. The swirling fog touched nearby metal, and on their surface, tiny water droplets condensed, losing its heat to the chilled surfaces of the cryo system. Inside, its occupant showed no signs of movement, though he was indeed alive - a fact Quattuor was constantly assured of by the constant feed of parameters of Package II. His heart, despite not having not beat for nearly a hundred thousand years, was now thrumming at a constant 60 beats a minute. He was taking slow, steady breaths. Other sensors indicated he was in the last stage of REM sleep, now in the process of waking up.

Rotating on the spot, Quattuor directed the supplementary systems to warm up and prepare to receive the Package. He rechecked the available weapons and supplies, and would have muttered a curse if he had a mouth. Instead he merely bumped up a request to 343 Guilty Spark to divert some resources from Sentinel manufacture to the Service level.

It wasn't as though this Installation was well-equipped to begin with. One of the seven surviving installations, it had to have a complete scrub and restoration in the days following the battle at the Capital. Hence, its resources had been massively depleted to restore even the basic functions. Aside from Sentinels, the Installation was ill-equipped for a potential Flood outbreak. Quattuor conceded that if the Flood was truly released, he might even have to direct Package II to activate Halo - restarting the process of cleansing the galaxy of life.

Out of desperation more than anything else, Quattuor ran a check on the two alien factions that had landed, or rather the weapons they carried. Perhaps Package II would have to improvise with theirs? Briefly, he diverted his processing away from waking Package II and studied the alien armaments.

From the available sensor data available from various inter-species skirmishes across the surface of Halo, he determined two main types of weaponry. The first, employed by the smaller, outnumbered species, used expanding gases to accelerate metal projectiles to supersonic speeds. However it required a good supply of ammunition to remain useful.

Quattuor took particular note of one large, armoured individual who was faster and stronger than the rest. He flagged its location and ordered sensors to track it. If Package II crossed paths with this individual, the Installation was doomed should Package II perish.

The second, used extensively by the other conglomerate of species, directed superheated hydrogen fluoride gas in straight trajectories, akin to plasma weaponry. The process they employed was terribly inefficient and wasted power by requiring a cooldown time, but it was slightly better for disinfection.

Saving that file, Quattuor turned his attention back to Package II's parameters - still within tolerable limits, thankfully - and popped the seal on the cryo system. A dozen secondary clamps disengaged and the lid hissed upwards with a tiny squeak.

The Forerunner was awake now, his arms feebly wrapping around to shield himself. A visual scan confirmed that Package II was unscathed and was fit for combat. Warming systems engaged and several heated pads lowered, gently resting on his chest and abdomen. They activated and the Forerunner relaxed, the heat warming his blood and his limbs as well through circulation. Additional pads on attachments extended up to his uncovered face and limbs, moistening his eyes and massaging his muscles. Elsewhere, lights sprang to life all around the Room and sections of the wall slid open, revealing a dozen concealed compartments with racks of equipment. Or rather, equipment that should have been there.

While the Forerunner staggered out of the cryo tube and struggled to put on set of black thermal underlayer assisted, Quattuor was running a complete inventory of the section of Halo they occupied, and was more than disappointed with the results, even by his lowered expectations. Save for armour replacement parts, there was next to nothing to support Package II in the way of weaponry. All that was available was the lone energy sword and a shield Package II had stored when he entered. Too little for the task at hand.

He turned his attention back to Package II. Now fully awake and dressed, he simply stared at a rack stocked with gauntlets, a blank look in his eyes that Quattuor realised belatedly could possibly be amnesia. he checked the next step in protocol and approached Package II.

"Do you remember your ID?" Quattuor asked gently. The Package simply turned from his stupor and faced Quattuor directly, the blank look in his eyes still present.

All the individuals the Didact had picked to serve as Packages were required to choose an identification name for themselves to use on the Halos and the Ark, lest a Gravemind deduce their true identities and attempt to assmilate them with increased motivation. The name consisted of three words in any order: a colour word, a word describing their combat attribute, and one word to describe themselves. Quattuor knew Package II's ID, but until he remembered it and answered this security question of sorts, the Package would be deemed as unfit for combat, and the next Package unlocked. However, there were no more packages for Installation 04...

The Forerunner turned and walked over to a rack on his left, where he had stored his shield. Running a finger down its edge, he stubbornly remained silent.

Quattuor was well and truly desperate by now, and he combed his protocols in a futile attempt to find an alternative, until he realised Package II had frozen at the sight of something. Hovering over to his side, Quattuor spotted what had attracted Package II's attention.

A flower, withered but still mostly intact, was lying on the floor just under the rack, as it must have been for a hundred thousand years. With nothing to decompose it in the sterile room, the flower had just lain there, awaiting the return of the person who had put it there. Package II slowly bent down and picked it up so gently, it was as though he feared it might disintegrate at any moment.

A petal, shrunken and dehydrated, slowly peeled off and floated to the ground. Package II drew in a breath abruptly, and set down the flower with the same infinite care he had used to pick it up.

A question was a millisecond away from being spoken by Quattuor when at last, the Package spoke coherently for the first time.

"My ID is Anomalous Cyan Shield, abbreviated as ACS."

"Login is complete, Anomalous." Quattuor intoned with a very close approximation to a sigh of relief.

"How do you feel? Is there anything you cannot remember?"

Anomalous paused to give the question some thought. _What do I remember? There was a dream..wasn't there? _Anomalous hissed in frustration.

"I can't remember a name." Rather than say it to Quattuor, it was more like he addressed the ground. The blank look in Anomalous' eyes had been replaced with one filled with an emotion, the emptiness and longing analogous to one longing for a friend.

"Do you refer to Package I, Black Rock Shooter?"

Anomalous' eyes instantly lit up and he finally gave Quattuor his full attention.

"Yes...yes, that was her ID, I think."

"Unfortunately, that will have to wait. You have been assigned other objectives as per standing orders from the Didact."

"How long has it been?" Anomalous asked. "Since..since I was sealed?"

"Approximately ninety seven thousand, four hundred and forty-eight local years."

Anomalous did the mental mathematics, his eyes widening as he did so.

"Then..that means I was in stasis for...two hundred and forty-three years?"

"Point six two, to be precise. Yes, Anomalous, you have been in stasis for a very long time. So I ask you again: how do you feel?" Quattuor pressed the question more urgently.

"Fighting fit, Quattuor." To illustrate his point, he raised and stretched his arms, cracking joints and stretching muscles that hadn't moved for more than two centuries.

"You must complete the physical checkup stations." Quattuor insisted. "Your combat ability may have been compromised in the long stasis."

So, Anomalous was guided through the remaining racks extending from the wall, testing his reaction speed and strength, which fortunately read green across the board. Quattuor finally allowed Anomalous to don his armour, light compared to complete combat skins. While waiting for him, Quattuor returned to his background check on the warring factions; still locked in combat in multiple places, the underdogs were putting up a good fight, apparently coordinating their efforts to reach their crashed starship. Amongst both faction's communications, he filtered through and searched for repeated terms and names, and cross-referenced with the Library's vast index of all known languages and roots.

Five seconds later, a frustratingly long search by his standards, he had several names. The smaller of the two factions were collectively called humans. Composed of one species, they bore the greatest rememblence to his late masters, except that they stood shorter and weaker. Collectively, however, he observed that they were not fools, leveraging on ingenious strategy to balance their odds. The other faction was a conglomerate of species: Unggoy, Kig-yar, Sangheili, Mgalekgolo, and the San-Shyuum species, all but the last translated using Sangheili languges. They had collectively labelled themselves as the Covenant. As the sensor networks around Halo confirmed, this was the more dangerous faction by an order of magnitude, given their repeated attempts to access restricted areas. Quattuor set an alert to monitor the progress of their attempts and prepared one final piece of equipment.

Turning back, he observed that Anomalous had finished wearing his armour: gauntlets on his forearms, full armour for his lower body, and a part of the full suit's back armour. The physical station's subsystem reported him as ninety-three percent combat ready, itself already a small miracle considering the long period of confinement. Anomalous had just donned his hand armour when Quattuor approached.

"I apologise for the lack in equipment, Anomalous. Most glaring is of course, the lack of a helmet." he turned his monitor casing downwards in an imitation of an apologetic bow.

"It shouldn't be a problem, though," Anomalous countered. "Among other things..I trust my shield."

"That aside, you require one last piece of equipment."

A small section of Quattuor's casing detached and floated towards Anomalous, its shape shifting and folding until it resembled a semicircular loop. Quattuor carefully positioned this apparatus on the back of Anomalous' neck, and activated it.

The effect was instant; Anomalous' eyes focused and flicked from side to side, as though seeing something in front of him. Nothing was in front of him, actually: it was a simple holographic display being piggybacked onto his visual input, courtesy of this neural interface Quattuor had just given Anomalous. A heads-up display without the use of a helmet; the most economical use of the equipment available to Quattuor.

"Your primary objective is to prevent these species from releasing the Flood," Quattuor spoke through the interface, and displayed snapshots of the Covenant species, gathered from his sensor network. "They are large in number and most likely on their way to restricted Service and Surface levels."

Quattuor paused, as though to steel his nerves. If he had nerves.

"Should the Flood escape, your primary objective is to contain them by any means necessary."

"Even if it means activating Halo?"

Quattuor pondered his reply for a full three seconds; was this option really an option?

"Yes," he hesitantly replied. "As a Forerunner, either you or a Reclaimer may activate the Installation."

"What about Black Rock Shooter? Where is she now?"

"She is..your secondary objective." Quattuor paused to upload a schematic of Halo. "She is located in a cryo tube near Power Room 3."

At this revelation, Anomalous turned to look at Quattuor rather than the holographic display.

"Why is she there?" The question came out tinged with a hint of anger.

"She..Black Rock Shooter was activated four years ago to control a minor Flood Outbreak." Quattuor answered emotionlessly. "Containment structures near to Rock failed and I ordered her to contain it."

"..was it successful?"

"Partially. Black Rock Shooter destroyed ninety-five percent of the infection and sealed off five percent in a Sanctuary-level structure." He paused again, debating whether to tell the rest to him.

"Black Rock Shooter was injured in the process, and placed herself in emergency cryo stasis. You will rescue her after completing your primary objective." He added quickly.

A fire seemed to have lit in Anomalous' eyes, disregarding the last sentence. He stared at the rack with the unknown flower, and muttered something so sftly, he had to use the neural interface to intercept his speech:

"I still can't remember your name..Rock."

Breaking off from this distraction, Anomalous turned to face Quattour for the final time.

"Update the coordinates of the Covenant teams regularly, Quattuor."

Quattuor bobbed up and down, an action analogous to a nod. He watched silently as Anomalous strode to the racks, hefting the seventeen-kilogram shield in his right as though it was as light as a feather. From the other rack, he retrieved a lone sword with its sheath, slinging it over his back as he walked to the door. Just as it slid open, he paused.

"When all this is over," he softly spoke to Quattuor. "I can go get Rock, right?"

"Rescuing her is your secondary objective," Quattuor replied evenly. "Not doing so is a failure."

With that, Anomalous Cyan Shield strode out of the Room noiselessly.

**to be continued.**

Author's notes:

I'm still playing around with the chapter format, though I guess I'll stick to naming the first sub-title as the main title for the chapter.

More characters have been introduced! The Halo novel writers have done a great job characterising the Sangheili race, and I'm chipping in with this too.

Chapter Three will bring back BRS into the spotlight with the **Terminal Message Series**. They're random messages or logs that BRS has written and left for ACS to read along the way. They will feature as the first part of all subsequent chapters as a reminder that this really is a BRS/Halo crossover.

Credits to defination for beta reading and proofreading.


	3. Terminal Message 001

**Terminal Message 001: Black Rock Shooter**

* * *

BEGIN TEXTUAL LOG

/REFERENCE DATE: {September 19, 2552} [EXTRACTED CALENDAR FROM HUMAN SYSTEMS]

/DATE: JULY 17, 2548 [HUMAN CALENDAR REFERENCE] [BACKDATED FROM TEXTUAL LOG OF ID: BLACK ROCK SHOOTER]

/ENTREE ID: BLACK ROCK SHOOTER

/BEGIN LOG:

* * *

A long, long time, ago, we made love under the stars.

You taught me that the term 'making love' meant an entirely different thing in the far-removed past, when thousands of years ago, we lived on a single world. In that world, couples make love by joining at the lips. They embrace, sometimes passionately, sometimes conservatively, but the central focus is the kiss.

The first time then, my heart raced. This was a taste beyond food, a touch beyond feeling, it is _you._ Your taste, your scent, your touch.

Then, who was shaking? Was it you, or is it me? Perhaps both? Because shortly after, the shudders became too much, and we broke apart, our gazes met.

Then, I realised, _I _was shaking. Your eyes, the rare dark shade of brown as dark as dusk, failed to hold my panicking gaze. I wanted to stand, I wanted to be elsewhere...

You held me, you suddenly held me close. You were shaking too.

Some things cannot be conveyed through words; a certain fear within you is one of those things. As you held on to me irrationally, I sensed it; there's something inside of you too, a fear, and a wish. Untranslatable information by the standards of any word. Such things are felt, not heard.

So I held you...I held on to you. You stopped shaking upon realising, someone in this world cares for you deeply.

Ugh...it hurts.

Even now, just remembering this recollection, _my heart hurts._ This memory is all I was able to recall, but it aches so much, as though that moment was stretched to infinity, and we lived every second...

Come back to me, Cyan Shield. Where you are, you must come back to me.

_"A person's character lives on in the memories of others," _He said. _"Try to remember him, and what he said of you. Remember and you can possibly reverse the damage to your memory."_

Why, how, and when I know is beyond me, but Cyan Shield, you take up so much of my memory!

There are more memories we shared besides that lovemaking under the stars, more that went on before and after!

...if only, I didn't wake up, maybe.

I was dreaming a dream..an impossibly long dream.

You...you made me a promise, one day. You said...you said something.

But each day you're not here, is a day in which my heart is wounded.

My perpetually wounded heart cannot endure this pain for long, so...

...if you do not find me after all this is over, then I will find you.

There seems to be no other signs of life here on the Ringworld besides the Flood. I will slaughter them all, then come for you.

And then I will make you mine; rip out your throat, which uttered all those words, and promised things I remember naught of.

* * *

/LOG END.

**to be continued.**

Author's notes:

An inspiration of feels from Megurine Luka's Rip = Release.

Sadly, I think I will not be able to write again after I enlist in NS...in May 7th.


End file.
